A Fool's Fancy
by SharperImage
Summary: -My death will be the biggest stain on your heart. With every waking thought you will think of me, and if you forget for one moment, my phantom will be there to torment you- The worst enemy is the one whose promises never come true.
1. The same cover different book

Well here we are! the story finally, I had a lot of fun on this and hope to write more about Basch in his prison days, so many things to wonder about, for example; how he got that scar over his eye. XD can't wait to write about that! well now here's that witty disclaimer saying something about how I don't own the game an never will; I'm just writing the story. But I don't care! I want to own the game, wanting should count. determination can take one far, (cough pun on story below cough).

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Chains

Darkness was all there was, and its deafening silence pressed downwards with great force. Yet, the unnatural stillness was awing, as it suffocated everything in nothing. Basch fell deeper and deeper into it all; feeling a tension release itself from his shoulders, like nothing had ever weighed them down before. He let it pull him downwards, unable to fight any longer against its raging black began to smother him as it had everything else, and he didn't mind. Before all perception left him, he realized what it was that held him down. It choked him with dread, and something else; disappointment. It was something that everyone feared; no matter how much one could say they weren't afraid. He was disgusted with himself that he wasn't surprised he was dying.

But then relief drowned it out, he could finally stop. His hopes and absurd dreams of something different; to be far away from his prison, for this to never have been, to be human again, finally he could let it all go. No one would miss the man who was already dead, and all the pain would be gone forever. As he sank into his morbid justification, he ceased to care what would happen; he would be dead and gone for good, far away from this mess. But as he went deeper into the beguiling darkness, something shouted out with such fierce intensity, it pushed the deep black away. It was a pounding anxiousness and fear begging him to stop and reconsider; but all he wanted to do was drift without worry or apprehension any longer. Basch tried to hide from it, but a thundering shattered the gloom. He didn't want to go back to live another day, it would surely drive him to the brink if he did. He couldn't stand such a life, it would be better if he could leave it forever than to exist in such a way.

But the insistent noise wouldn't stop, and as he fought, he realized that the gods would not show him mercy; everything was at the hands of others, he couldn't even die to relieve himself of this life; it tore at him, completely severing all but the thinnest string in his spirit. There was nothing he could do, except sit and be tormented for eternity. Basch felt numb with the darkest despair. Even as he had been prepared to die, to throw it all away and escape--destroying fruitless dreams his mind was too tired to carry on--He realized that death was one of those hopes too, ever denied him as the healers hand passed over; giving just enough strength and air back into his body to be tortured again.

As his eyes began to lift open, a strangely unnatural giddiness enveloped him. He could just make out the metal bars, and could feel the heavy chains weighing him down. But something was different, and as his consciousness grew more substantial his insanity left him, replaced by the logic of reason. He knew why he still lived, and it wasn't by the will of others. Nor was it by an untouchable hope; his last thread to which he clung was sheer determination. It was the disappointment which had come before, it was what had egged him on, and kept him steady even when his way was gone.

The grim fact, the reason he had lived through so many other days and stayed sane, lived through so many other dreams such as this and still kept going. It was to prove he was innocent; his disgust had been over how weak he had become. He would live an eternity of this to prove his being right, and to show the entire world that his crime had been a lie, his death sentence false; even if that world was limited to one person. Truth was the greatest thing for someone to face, to know the reality and be unafraid, not to live in illusions; he would not die to make his entire life a lie. To give up would be to prove them right, to show everyone that he was a murderer. It was the cement resolve that Noah could never understand, and he could cling too it for all he was worth. His reason for living was not one of hope, but of resolve, he would get out and live another day, fight for the right thing as he had always done, and strive for the truth.

As Basch opened his eyes to his small cage, he caught his breath in shock; it was gone. The ceiling made of deteriorating and damp stone, was one of wood. As he looked about deliriously there was a silvery white light illuminating the large room around him. He turned and saw it came in from a window, there wasn't a single bar across it. He sat up, and felt soft blankets roll away from his chest, as he stared at the moon shining brightly. It was the same one, just as full and bright as it had been on that night, he had thought would be his last.

A weight upon his chest drew him away from such disfavored memories that moon held; and he grasped it in his hand. It had survived too, something that had helped him to remember in the darkest place. His only keepsake that had been allowed and put there to mock him; it was as battered and rusted as he was, the same as before but now changed in its meaning. He held it tightly, as a last shard of his past. It would help him to tell the truth, as a reminder of all he had fallen from, and of all the people who had died for him. He felt the determination in him warp as it began to take on a fuller more real wasn't hope, he couldn't hope for anything any more, he had been through enough to know that hope was a fool's fancy.

And in his reflection he could see it, that pendant shining, his face just as clean and noble as before; and a hardness that went beyond strength. He knew that even if he had escaped there was no promise he could ever be free, but he could certainly do something about it.


	2. Regressions and Rage

well,... explanations are great arn't they?! This is to be a series centering around Basch (duh). As I mentioned previously, About his imprisonment. But Rather, I'm taking different parts of him in the story of the game, where he seems especially tense about somthing Via--Basch arguing with Vossler when he first comes back to Rabanaster, and is getting checked out by the resistance, trying to get them to believe him. So he can go free.

**Rage**

_"I must treat you as I would Ondore--As I would treat any abettor of the Empire."_

_"Then what will you do?--Hold me here in chains!"_

Basch glowered unblinkingly into Vossler's eyes, staring his once upon a time friend and ally down; daring the resistance leader to try and keep him under lock and key the same as the Imperials had. A memory of the prison came into his mind, a memory of pain and hopelessness; Basch felt something feral rise into his chest constricting his throat with rage, and hate. He fought with himself to grab Vossler and punch him. The fingers of his hand twitched, as he kept himself from bringing his vision to life.

Despite how Basch felt, on the outside, anyone who watched would see a very serious and stony calm on his face, showing nothing of how he fought with himself; such was the way with any leader. Weakness shown such as that would never gain a man respect, if he raged in anger, then how did it show him? Only as cruel and bitter, proving to all that for all of his innocence, he was the king slayer. Pointless anger deserved what it gave, and it would just lessen his already disreputable self among others' eyes. So Basch reasoned angry was not the way to appear to others; he looked merely intense, but not angry to the point of violence. Not as he felt inside, with the feral heat burning down each vein like molten metal.

Vossler seemed to catch something in his former captain's glare that reflected the rage Basch felt. For Vossler narrowed his eyes struggling, and then he gave up, looking down with a weary sigh. Basch felt something inside him sigh too, and he realized how close he was and still might be to harming Vossler. Suddenly alarmed with himself, Basch quickly averted his feelings, trying to regain control over the sensation to harm one of his oldest friends.

He understood why Vossler would distrust him so, gods but he did; his friend believed to him to be a king slayer, and not least of which dead. Strangely, he welcomed the angry rage, it protected him from darker thoughts that no man should be burdened with; but it also frightened him deeply. Basch didn't recall feeling such, sudden lethal hatred and out right thoughts of harming someone so pointlessly before. So he pushed it all away, hating the taste of such ill begotten power. He knew what blood rage was; in battle it would drive a man on past his limits, to the death if it got the chance; it was the force of someone's last and most desperate defense. The last way of preserving one's life, the mind and body sacrificed what could stand to be lost, to preserve the vital core of one's being.

Basch never had let it get to him before, he had felt it there, but had always let it lay dormant, knowing it would only ruin him if he used it so lightly. The rage's essence was bestial, ridding a man of his humanity and sacrificing everything else, just to live another day. He had though that it would have been better dying than to give up what defined him. But now he knew it to be a different story, the wildness in him he could not stop. If he had to, he knew deep inside he wouldn't waste a breath to cut down whoever stood in his way, just to not go back to such darkness ever again. His fear of it was too much for him to comprehend, and he felt no desire to understand it, as he tried to mend still deep gashes on his soul.

He shuddered on the inside as Vossler tossed the sword of the order to him. Bacsh's hand flew out instinctively and caught it, He had not even realized it till Vossler had brought him away from things best not thought about, and he felt the crazed monster die inside of him.

He looked at the sword, and his stomach turned upside down; it lay heavy in his hand, all lifeless steel that would aid him in taking the life of another, force that insanity onto something else before it finally died. All in order to save another, someone who must despise him; yet he would do this so they would spare his life in turn.

Basch kept the sword at arms length, he felt that hardness settle over this resolve too. He wouldn't let this task slip through his fingers. The weight on his chest was too great; and even though Vossler didn't believe him...

He had a chance, spared out of pity, or fear. He hoped that what ever he would have to do, it wouldn't take him down the path he dreaded it might, down the path to what he fought against. He spoke quietly with that stony calm concealing all his doubts and fear;

_"Some things never change, do they?"_


	3. The prison break, the theif, & the crow

Hey, this is chapter 3 for a fools fancy, you may find this a bit different from one and two, but recent discoveries have led my to try this. It's taken a while, but it's here.

The prison break, the thief, and the crow

To say that he wishes for the dream to end would have been all too pleasant. Even though he lies as still as the dust clinging to the rafters, Basch is not asleep. With his breath in shallow gasps, and pulse racing, he sits and stares. He doesn't blink or flinch from the raucous caw of a crow, nor does he note the shouts of a woman who has just been mugged, screaming for a guard to stop the half starved and ragged thief. He just sits there; one knee pulled up to his chest with an arm across it, resting the side of his face, as he stares into nothing. Yet, he can see it all again, the emotion of that terrible night.

_Basch could feel the men's gauntlets pressing into his arms; he struggled, searching for a way to catch them off guard. They held him fast though, gripping him so hard that his fingers tingled. Blood and sweat poured into his eyes as he staggered under the weight of two armored soldiers, he looked desperately around the room for his sword, but it had disappeared, thrust from his grasp, and although he looked, he __**knew**__, he was alone. _

Unconsciously, Basch rubs his wrists, feeling the scars that are worn into his flesh forever. He continues to stare into only what he can see; and this time the woman's cry is answered. Metallically clad feet can be seen running through the dusty haze to catch the thief, the crow settles on the sill just outside Basch's window. Yet, the captain does not notice these common every day things; lost in the haze of a sleepless dream.

_He didn't need to move his eyes upwards to see the dying; their screams put a good enough picture in his mind. The soldiers pushed harder as he struggled more and more; He felt a hand moving up his shoulder to grab his neck and tried to stagger away. The Imperial settled for a hold on his shoulder with a crushing grip instead. Basch winced in pain, his eyes crossing beneath an explosion of nausea. _

_Before he knew it, they had him, the two soldiers with hands close to his neck shoved him down; the treaty room floor rushed up to meet him, and it slapped him in the face. He let his eyes slowly close against the cool granite, feeling the pound of fiery pain building in his head. But the colors swirling beneath his eyelids made him feel worse._

_His eyes popped open, and the colors disappeared. A pool of crimson liquid was forming on the floor before him. His lip stung, as it was pressed against the floor. His face burned and his vision blurred, and some emotionless part of him that still thought, told him it was blood. His blood._

_Painfully, that cold part of him made it all too obvious that two elite soldiers were making little work of him. He, had defeated countless soldiers such as these before hand, and now two trussed him up like a creature for slaughter; a hero of Dalmasca, to this. The cuffs were so tight that they severed the flow of his blood with every move of his wrists; and something inside of him was boiling over, he was going to die, he was too late, to slow, to hesitant, why hadn't he gotten here sooner? He could have kept his majesty alive, but…_

_King Raminas had met his end._

Basch sits in the dark room, curtains over the window let in only a trace of the desert sun, but something in the captain's hand flares with light. It is a mirror, set in rough wood, and marred, but it is clean enough for him to see that face in its reflection.

The friends of the woman are surrounding her with comforting words, all of their rich and gaudy perfumes wafting into Basch's room as he barely registers their cloying terms. The woman is weeping pathetically, despairing over her lost valuables. Her associates coo to her with words that are too sticky sweet with secret glee and snide approval, and they lead the poor woman away, telling her falsities of friendship.

The only thing that seems to notice their departure is the crow, which caws good riddance to the noise-some, frivolous, woman, scorning them for such pettiness. Yet Basch cannot know this, for he does not listen to, nor does he understand the intricate language of birds.

So he sits there and stares into his past, something he's seen many times before in night mares comes to life before his blinded eyes.

_The building anger rose up to rear its ugly head; he wouldn't die, he wouldn't die, he needed to get away, he needed Vossler. If only he knew what had happened to Vossler, had he been taken too? Basch strained against them, trying to get his head away from their grasp, and pointed metal armor pressed into the small of his back. He coughed struggling for breath, to get his legs beneath him, and stand up; but only succeeded in being kicked in the side. _

_Basch groaned, the dizziness made him sick, but he kept trying to struggle away, no longer thinking. In the end though, the soldiers inevitably succeeded in subduing him. Basch looked out of the corner of his eye up into the metal covered face of the soldier, "Why don't you just kill me?" His words were thick and filled with pain, but, He didn't care anymore about what happened. He just wanted an answer. _

_Something hard hit the side of Basch's skull, and everything began swirling in a haze. He gasped in pain and shut his eyes, feeling close to becoming sick. A voice pressed into his ear, muffled and yet full of disdain. "Prisoners are not allowed to talk in the presence of their betters, unless spoken too." Basch didn't register the voice, but if he had been in full connection of his senses just then, he could have screamed in fright. Before he knew what was happening the men had lifted him to his feet, pulling him up by his elbows. Basch kicked and wrenched in their grasp and suddenly became aware of a face that he knew, but couldn't bare to meet._

Basch shutters in fear, pulling his upraised knee closer, hiding his face behind his arm. Still, he sees the reflection, his face. Outside the crow is calling again, waiting, anticipating. Now that the woman has moved away, another sort of shouting can be listened to. It is the voice of a child that runs from pure fright. She is ragged and thin, barely alive. A bag with a hefty collection of coins jingles in her hands, as she pants in frustration and exhaustion. She stops, not far from where she first stole the women's purse. She coughs in seizures of pain as her raw lungs pull in much needed air. Hearing the soldier behind her, she begins running down the street again. However, as she runs, a shadow spreads its cold tendrils across her escape.

…_his heart stopped beating, and everything but that face, blurred into a void which made no noise or movement. His throat closed over, and all that came out was a strained exhale, his trembling legs anchoring him to the ground. The struggle he had prepared for turned into him limply leaning into the grip of his captors. He was stunned._

_A cold and heavy weight settled on his heart, as he stood still, thoughtless for that short eternity. Then, his face sank into an unreadable mask; his insides roiling with more feelings than he knew to name or for that matter cared to. That reflection stared back, with arrogance and a look that lusted and wanted nothing more than to harm him. That look slid beneath Basch's eyes and didn't let go, seeing all the feelings he was trying to hold down; trying to rip him apart. Then, Basch looked away, heard a quiet, triumphant chuckle, and couldn't tell if he had shook from sudden exhaustion, or the sound of that cold mirthless reverberation. _

The girl is looking back over her shoulder, too preoccupied with the fear of the man behind her, rather than the one in ahead. She slams into him as one might a clear glass window; because she didn't even know he was there. She screams and kicks in fright, clawing away from the man who is grabbing for her. Her arms scrabble against the dirty alley floor trying to claw her free. But the soldier's boot lands heavily on her back. She stops struggling then, and she sobs in pain, the woman's purse a mere centimeter from her grasp.

The other soldier finally appears, and relaxes greatly when he sees that she is motionless upon the ground. He saunters over to his comrade his hand falling from his weapon. He stops before the girl, picking up the purse, he listens to her weak sobs, and spits in her filthy pale face.

_Someone shoved him back; Basch stumbled trying to get his balance. But fell as the men started to drag him across the treaty room's floor. He twisted and turned, gasping and panting, trying to break free. Then, as he moved his head, a boot heel came back and hit him in the temple. Basch closed his eyes when colors began to swirl past in dizzying waves. Lightning bolts of agony flashed through him, with each pounding of his heart. A single thought screamed through his head, in time with these; this couldn't be happening, this couldn't be happening this couldn't be..._

_But as his head finally stopped pounding, and he opened his eyes, he was in deep dark shadows. He was on his back looking up into nothing. Then, he heard the soldiers about him and looked into the distance, he could see his mirror, his brother, Noah; slink into the shadows of the hall. Waiting for something, and then Basch realized that Reks was still out there, running, to help his comrades who were fighting. Yet Reks would find only carnage when he stepped into the room…_

The soldier looks down on the rat he has captured; he steps off her, and kicks her, making her moan and writhe on the ground. The other man follows suit, and does the same. She's crying now, and all Basch does is sit far away in a deep dark corner. The crow flutters its wings watching her mercilessly, his eyes as cold as ice, waiting. There is blood across the ground, and finally the one still holding the money hesitates. Awash with guilt for what he's doing, but the other man doesn't heed his upraised hand, and his stillness goes unrequited.

He's finally had enough, and tells his counterpart to stop. The other frowns and grabs the girl's scruff, lifting her off the dirty street. He whisperers something to her that Basch won't hear, and the girl shakes her head hoping that the man's upraised fist won't hit her again. The soldier drops her to the ground and walks away, ignoring the others angry stare. The other turns, and he pities the sight before him. He takes the bag, and drops two coins before her face. He then jogs after the other the bag jangling in his hand.

The girl doesn't move, still from where she has landed.

High above on his perch though, the crow caws, horrid, dark, and full of malicious glee, laughing at the irony of it all, he smells her blood, and ruffles his feathers.

_Basch lunged forward, jumping to his feet before the soldiers knew what was happening. He ran as fast as his trembling and tired body could, hunched over from the cuffs around his wrists, desperate to reach the door. He never made it, as soldiers grabbed him, dragging him back down. _

_The hall door creaked open, and Reks walked slowly into the room; his face alighted with horror at the corpses that littered the room in a haphazard jumble. Basch heard every quick and shallow breath that Reks made. He saw the boys eyes, so stunned at the brutality, turn to the chair in the center of the room; the boys face went whiter than a wraith's, his breath choking on tears. _

_A figure stepped out of the shadows… his brother Noah. Basch ducked arms that lunged for him, pivoting around so the soldiers couldn't take hold of his bound arms. A hand swung at his head, and Basch caught a glimpse of Reks. His brother's footsteps spread invisible ice on the floor, cold and silent he stood behind Reks, drawing a dagger from his belt. The dagger flashed red with dried blood as it passed through the light. Reks didn't seem to notice, as he stared at the king…_

_Basch screamed Reks's name, twisting as soldiers hands landed on him, holding him tight; and then, Noah shot a look more jagged than any sword, filled to the brim with hatred at Basch. It sent ice through his veins; and with a bloodthirsty grin, Noah looked away. Basch screamed his name; almost as soon as it had left his lips, hands clamped over his mouth, pulling Basch back, and down. _

_He screamed Noah's name into their hands, accusingly, full of shock. He exploded, trying to get back up, writhing and kicking. The men tried carrying him away but they dropped him as Basch kicked one beneath the chin. He sat up quickly, looking for Reks. He vaguely glimpsed more soldiers running in, and then heard a cracking noise, all the colors blurred. He felt his eyes closing, and tried to open them again, but they fell back down, and he could feel his body go slack, his vision turning white._

The caw of the crow reaches Basch this time, and he looks up surprised. The crow spreads its wings and flaps away, his glossy black feathers shining iridescent rainbows in the sun. Basch followed the dark bird's flight, walking unsteadily to where the crow had been so recently perched. His steps echo around the empty room and he feels something slip from his hand and fall to the floor. The echoes fade into nothing as he stops, staring at it. The mirror is shatter upon the floor, shards of its glass catching the faint light in the shadows of the room. Basch kneels down and grabs the handle with a shaking hand, turning it so he can see his face. Cracks run all across it, and as he lifts it up, shards fall to the floor skittering on the wood; and he grabs one, a large unbroken piece, so that he can see his facade.

_He was different, completely different from that face, he wasn't the same._ Another caw from the crow makes him look up again. He sees the dark curtains blowing gently in the wind, inflating, and then falling limp again. Basch edges closer to the fresh air, and pulls the curtain back, wincing as sunlight hits his eyes. A black feather is falling, flipping over itself as it's pushed about on a warm breeze. It circles around unsure of where to go, and then the feather is free, falling to the ground next to a girl, who is lying motionless upon the dirt.

His eyes widen, she's covered with cuts and bruises, and dark red almost black blood is oozing slowly down the street towards a drain. Basch clenches his fist and pain runs through his hand. He opens his trembling hand, and sees a reflection of himself. The shard of glass, slick with his blood falls to the ground and shatters. As he stands and stares at the girl below, he doesn't feel the warm blood gushing from his own palm.

He had ignored her, as she was being beaten; let her cries slide by unheeded_. Was he any better, letting a crime go on and not doing anything about it? Was he better than a thug, or a murderer? _

Basch runs for the door, and down to the street. His feet clatter down rickety stairs; and he grabs the handle, wrenching the door open. She's lying on her side away from him, an arm around her middle. Basch fears scaring her and walks with care to her side; he kneels down, gently touching her shoulder. She doesn't move, quickly he turns her over to face him. Blood stains the corner of her mouth and there are gashes on her face. Her eyes are closed, and her breathing is shallow, Basch sits helplessly before her, wishing he were here sooner.

_He was just as bad, as __**him.**_ Basch smoothes back the girl's hair, searching her neck for a pulse, it's almost gone. However, as he takes his fingers away, the girl's eyes flutter open. They're clouded and dilated but she knows that he's there. Basch opens his mouth, but she smiles, cutting off his words. It is a painfully pretty smile to him, but her face creases with pain and it disappears as her mouth moves. "Please, don't…be upset. I…I'm not sad that I… I did…" Basch blinks; her voice is so... young; but it's so full of passion even though she is a child. He gently wraps his arms around her, and she looks at him with earnest, "Don't think… that this was… y-your fault?"

Basch blinks, filling with pity and annoyance; it was though, if he hadn't been too preoccupied with his past, moaning over something that had already happened. He could have kept _this _from happening; but one thing he had learned, it was that wishes never came true. So he made himself face the cold hard reality, made himself stop wanting her to be healthy, because she wasn't. He knew that he had failed her as he had so many others.

The girl shakes her head, her smile fading, and she coughs. "I want to…see my sist-er. Where… is she…?" She closes her eyes, and continues coughing. She puts her hands over her mouth, and then stops moving altogether. Basch leans closer to her, and moves her hands away. There is blood on them, and on her lips.

He hears a cry, and looks around at the ends of the alley, but there's no one there. Then, he looks up at his window, and sees a crow sitting on the sill. It is looking straight at him, with eyes that seem to calculate everything; and its gaze is analyzing him, and the girl in his arms. Basch yanks his eyes away, he doesn't like the feeling the crow gives him, and ice penetrates through his back, to the girl, because the bird seems more intuitive than any bird has a right to be.

He looks at her, and realizes that he's holding her tight to his chest, her head cradled in his arms. Then, he stands. He ignores the chill on his back, and begins to walk, with each small and steady step, he fears she hurts more, but she doesn't make a response; and realizes that that is even worse. He gives up the pretense of walking with calm steady steps; and instead begins to jog. He avoids the main walkways, away from the people, who would gawk, and stare, and talk.

He has little idea of where he's going, somewhere, for her. He comes to the place called Lowtown, the underground labyrinthine ghetto of Rabanastre; and slinks through its dark alleys. He wanders about, until he sees an open door with an address and a name next to it. Dalan it read. He knew that name, from a long time ago. He walks through the door, and up stairs, until he's facing the old man; it's been such a while. Dalan's face is gaunter than before; but it doesn't look surprised in the least, not changed much at all.

Basch stands there, he stares at Dalan and the only sound that is heard is his panting. Dalan takes a minute to study the poor girl who lies in Basch's arms, and he looks back to Basch, smile spreading across his face. He reaches back and pulls aside a tapestry, revealing beds, and gestures for Basch to follow. Basch walks through the room without hesitation, each deliberate step brings him closer; and he feels anxiety lift from his chest. From below, he hears a small moan, and looks down.

Her eyes are open, and now she's smiling again, "mmm…you're comfy." Basch looks up his face blank, and sees Dalan's frail hands pull back the sheets of a bed; Basch walks to its edge, and lays her down. Her face is pale and sickly, and as soon as her head hits the pillow, she's passed out again. Basch turns his eyes away, using the contents of the room as an excuse. Then Dalan edges in front of him, a crooked smile still wide on his face.

"So…my eyes do not deceive me, the former Captain Basch Fon Ronsenburg does indeed stand before me." Basch does the inevitable and turns to look at Dalan; his face is blank as he stares at the old man. Dalan seems to be waiting for him to speak, but Basch doesn't move his mouth. Dalan steps out from behind the tapestry, and beckons a woman to go back and tend to the girl. He turns his face to Basch seriousness, sweeping over his once placid features.

"Do you hate him?" Basch blinks in surprise and takes a step back. He stares at Dalan for a second, the mask across his face chipped away to reveal the inside.

"How-"

Dalan waggles his finger tsking, "I have my sources, dear Captain. Now, answer my question." Basch stands too stunned to say anything as shock passes through him. _Did he hate Noah? He __**was**__ the one to blame for what had happened…everything._ Basch shivered, he wasn't sure, he didn't know; he just… couldn't think about it. Basch closes his eyes and shuts the door that Dalan has opened, firmly locking it. He doesn't want to see it right now, not again. But he catches a glimpse of it through the keyhole anyways.

_As soon as his eyes began to slide open he felt half sick, sore, and out of place. He didn't feel the strength to sit up as nausea stole it away; and flickering orange light blinded his sore eyes. Soon, his lids began to knit back together into that comforting dark sleep. _

_Pain tore through the small of his back, and Basch's eyes shot open, he strained against making a noise, and shut his eyes again. He could feel his arms burning behind his back as he moved, and a gag digging into his mouth obstructed his short desperate breaths. He rested his face on the ground as faintness took over, sound and sight taking their leave of him once more. _

_Then he felt a hand grabbing his collar. It jerked him up into the air; made his neck hurt. He opened his eyes, and Basch found himself staring into them; but these smoldered with anger that was barely being suppressed, anger he didn't understand._

_Noah tightened his grip "Let me guess, you want to know the reason for this. Don't you?" Basch didn't respond, partly because his brother had read his mind, and as obvious as the question was, he didn't want Noah to have the satisfaction. He was also so close to passing out again, that the thought of doing anything made him feel dizzy._

_He heard an emotionless chuckle from far away, and the shaking stopped. "It looks like his pride is too strong for that __**Gabranth**__." Basch's eye's widened, Gabranth? Noah turned to look at him. _

"_That's right, brother. I am Judge Magister Gabranth of the Archadian Army, and you, Basch Fon Ronsenburg are a king slayer." He could feel the hand on his collar shaking just the slightest bit, as the words were hissed into his ear._

"_Indeed his tenacity much resembles yours Gabranth; your faces aren't the only things that seem to be similar." The grip on his collar tightened tenfold as the voice said it; but Noah only nodded, obediently. Then there were footsteps, and the voice called back, "He's to do with as you please Gabranth, but spend him wisely. I want more than a corpse left." Again, his brother nodded, as the man walked away. Basch watched Noah with uncertainty, he was his brother's prisoner; his brother who hated him, pretended to be him and killed, and he didn't understand why. _

_Noah turned on him as most of the soldiers walked after the man, a scowl apparent on his face, grabbing the hair at the nape oh his neck he pulled back. Basch held in gasps and closed his eyes, as a hundred sharp needles stabbed his neck. Noah kept pulling and a small gasp escaped his gag. Then, the pressure eased, a little. Letting him breathe, Basch opened his eyes, and Noah was leaning over him, eyes narrow. _

"_If you ever, refuse to answer my questions again, then you'll regret it terribly." Suddenly, he let go, and Basch hit the ground. It hurt his arms and shoulders, as he landed on them, but he was useless to move them when they began to tingle numb. "Now." Noah stood; and kicked him in the ribs. "Answer my question." Basch wheezed, and rolled back and forth. Fireworks were exploding inside his eyes, and he clenched his teeth; but coughs slipped past as he tried to control the pain. He had to strain hard to hear what it was that Noah was saying, as he felt faint._

"Well, do you?" Basch opens his eyes in surprise. He blinks as he fails to bring the question to mind. Dalan turns his head, to stare at him from a different angle. "You're face seems pale, please captain take a seat." The elderly man sets to work clearing off a space, removing books and papers.

Basch's eyes light up, "Don't call me that." Dalan looks around; remnants of some food are resting in his hand. He suddenly seems to realize it is there, and takes a bite, chewing it thoroughly before swallowing.

"Eh? Oh, please, excuse me by calling you by your title.", and he turns back to the junk littering the chair. Basch shakes his head, and stares the old man down.

"You know fully that, that isn't my name now. I'm a kingslayer, not some decorated war hero. Saying that name is like kicking me, you mean it as an insult. To rub in my face what I've no possession of." Dalan turns and stares, his mustache twitching to strange angles as he purses his lips, studying Basch.

Then, he smiles and nods his head. "Ah, but you see, a necessary insult, that comment almost answers my question in and of itself." He finishes cleaning, and pats the arm of the chair, "Now, do sit. Your face still seems faint." Basch grudgingly sits down, straight and alert, despite its back and padded armrests. Dalan seats himself also, easing his old frail bones into his blanketed chair and then he sits, watching Basch with his strange bug-eyed looks.

"I'm glad that you think of yourself so, it does no good to comfort oneself with illusions. It is a tough truth to face, but I'm sure, that, you have by now." Dalan's smile fades away, as Basch nods resting an arm, but deep down he is still ready to bolt.

"Now the question is; do you hate that man?" Basch closes his eyes and looks away from the old informant.

"Yes, with every single fiber of my heart." His voice cracks, and turn to a whisper as he says it. Their cool tone, frosts the room, and Dalan's bushy eyebrows fall; he sighs and leans back into his chair.

"I really didn't expect much else; it would make sense; who wouldn't hate the person who's tormented them for two full years." Basch looks up; he feels the old man's disappointment everywhere, as if he has failed a test.

"I pity him. I know the reasons for what he did to me. He chose his path and no pain could I cause him that he doesn't already feel."

Dalan looks up, turning his head with curiosity, "what reasons are those?"

"I know better than to reveal private things to an informant." Dalan chuckles, and the sound whispers around the room, he watches Basch eagerly, mouth open in anticipation of Basch's next words. Like he's being humored.

Basch ignored it, and stared at the floor."He chose his path, and likewise I shall mine, I don't want it back, I care not for revenge." _After what he's done for it._ "All I wish is to be free, and right the wrongs my brother did. I want this, to be back." Basch gestures around the room, and now Dalan is looking impressed, believing his words. "I can't be what I was, but I will fight to save others who don't need to suffer like me. Others who still have a future."

Basch looks at the old man's eerily white-blue eyes, and Dalan's mouth spreads into a full smile this time, the first real one he's made, and nods. He begins to chuckle clapping his hands.

"Yes, yes, that was just the answer I was expecting to hear! One only you, who can grasp the situation can make. I'm very glad; anything else would have been unacceptable." Basch's face stays blank, as he carefully measures the man up; not entirely sure that the old man is completely in grasp of what happens now. Dalan points towards the door, and waves Basch towards it, to out of breath from chuckles that become a cacophony of laughter. He puts his face behind his hand trying to stop, but he just starts up again.

His eyes are tearing now, and Basch finally decides it's time to leave the old man to his devices. He's almost to the door, when he remembers to turn back. Much to his dismay Dalan still laughs, clutching his sides as incomprehensible words break through his wheezing. Basch, moves the curtains aside, and looks at the girl on the cot.

She's still asleep, but then Basch feels no shame in giving a small smile as he hears her smooth breathing. He looks away, and realizes the woman is still there right beside her. He freezes; she had been listening the entire time. Quickly he rounds on the old man, but Dalan is beyond help, coughing up a lung. He catches his breath enough to shoo Basch away with one last, word. "Go, don't worry. What is heard here doesn't leave unless I want it too." Then the old man was back to his wheezing, coughing, and laughing.

Basch sighs, he really doesn't care anymore who hears. He opens the door, and leaves Dalan behind.

When Basch returns to the alley, he runs into a strange sight. The crow is sitting on the ground before him, watching. That cunning intelligence is measuring him again, and Basch does his best to ignore it. He had forgotten all about it, but now it raises his skin. It doesn't want to be forgotten. He hears it caw and looks around. The bird has two coins shining in his beak, Basch takes a step towards it, but the bird is already flying away, cawing its own laughter at him.

All that's left of it, is a black feather, flipping over itself as it's pushed about in a warm breeze, it circles in the air above him, unsure of where to go, but finally, it stops its struggle with the powerful air; and it falls to the ground before his feet, just as darkness begins to envelope the city.

wha'd you think?! Please feel more than welcome to leave a review, it always tickles me to hear about all aspects of my story. Dont feel bad for critique I crave it. The first line wasn't too corny was it? XD

-Dont fear the water!!


	4. It's not what you say But how you say it

I know, It's ages late. Here is chapter four, brilliant as always....and I could never have written this without Quiddities, whose betaing I appreciate very much. I hope you like the changes I've made!

It's not what you say--But how you say it

_A broken promise…_The feeling made him want to retch until he was utterly senseless. Nevertheless, lungs rattled as they drank of the air with an unquenchable thirst. Coughing ensued, and each breath he fought to take became more desperate. His desire and fear drove him, and he breathed, as if the next gasp might be his last.

He calmed his racing heart, controlled the tremors that fought him. The layer of dried blood cracked and split; he opened his eyes.

Basch's gaze could not tear from the sight scattering the floor. Appalled he tried to look away, and it merited only his pain.

He saw beyond, and into the shadows. A monster stood there, ominous and hulking, a man's form not recognizable beneath all the layers of metal.

Basch recognized it, and recoiled. His self-deception failed him, and he gasped. Waking from a terribly well imagined nightmare, finding it was only beginning. He blinked in sickened surprise, as dread spread to his toes and to his fingertips.

His eyes cast about anxiously. The sad sight of what his mind had ignored beat at him. He shook, unable to comprehend. _Why?_ He could not look away from the blood streaking the floor, or the delicate blonde hair that mingled with it.

***

Basch's fingers tightened around his armrests with such subtlety, that even the trained eye might not notice. _Not the time for this nightmare..._

The powerful engine sent shock waves through him at the _Strahl_ came to life. Teeth clenched, and he threw off the burdensome thoughts that hailed him with claws outstretched.

Why was it ironic that he had escaped a hanging prison beneath the ground, where his only wish was to see daylight, and he realized he had an unexplainable fear of heights, open air, and flying? The glossair rings made a great roar as they spun, warming up. Any second they would lung forward into the open sky.

His heart jumped to his throat as the airship began its journey; he starting his. Resolve had no chance to leave him, though he was sure it would have if another second had been afforded. His eyes flickered closed, as he tried to control the erratic beat of his heart; he felt its pulse in the scar on his face. _Stinging. _Yet another reminder of the gnawing anxiety he felt._..such desperation, and madness.._. The warm earth melted away, he forced his eyes to focus on the bright sky before him.

Something pushed itself up like bile, but not. His eyes dropped, and a tremor of anxiety reminded him that it was a memory. Gritting his teeth, he looked back to the sky, but a weight pushed his gaze to the floor. Even when he managed to glimpse the heavens, his memory pushed closer to the surface. It took such mental reserve that he hardly noticed when his quaking hands turned white knuckled.

"Forget what I said about biting off tongues. Captain, you seem to be the like who would throw chairs should you remain silent." Balthier hummed.

Basch started in surprise, "I'm just feeling ill is all..."

"Is it the flying?" Balthier asked in amusement. The pilot's broad smirk was not to be missed.

Basch shook his head, "Nay, not the flying." The sky pirate nodded slowly, a devious smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and turned back to the controls silent.

"Hey, you just said there was no talking," Vaan spluttered, nearly jumping from his seat.

"That I did," Balthier told him with a grimace. Vaan's stare was keen, and he opened his mouth to start a torrent of hyper-anxious speech. Sensing this, Balthier's eyes widened, and without warning wrenched the ship's controls to the left. The _Strahl_ veered, throwing Vaan to the floor, and Basch's fingers dug deeper into the upholstery of his seat. His eyes shut of their own accord and he felt the world spinning frightfully fast. Gravity pushed against him, and for one agonizing second he couldn't breathe.

It stopped. And air he hadn't realized he'd been holding let itself out. His hands shook, but he made himself let go. Across the aisle, Vaan was a heap of person and chair, and Balthier was chuckling, fingers barely touching the steering as they glided below a cloud. "Please forgive that stunt, but I had to avoid an _extraordinarily_ large bird." His hands emphasized his words as they spread wide in understated example of the creature's magnitude.

"With metal wings and crew inside," Fran muttered, studying the readings on her controls intently. "You could have killed us all."

Balthier's eyebrows pulled came down, "Enough of you," he chided, "Why don't you offer your sarcasm to our guests? Or maybe, be a _dutiful _co-pilot and help them back into their seats."

Fran stood without argument, slow and deliberate as she helped Vaan untangle himself. Basch managed to shoot a private look of distaste at the Balthier. The sky pirate's eyes were waiting for him, and when they met, the man looked grim. There was no apology from Balthier, just calculations.

Beyond him, Basch could see the great expanse of never ending horizon, and his stomach flopped. His eyes shut.

"Whoa, Basch you don't look so great," He heard Vaan say. Basch doubled over, from the pain of holding back unbidden memories. Someone's hand was on his shoulder, and he flinched away from it.

"I'm fine," he managed to breathe. Unfortunately, Vaan didn't seem to think so.

"Good work Balthier, I think you gave him flight sickness—,"

"You know for a man so set on getting somewhere, you sure seem to be—,"

"Stop," Fran commanded of the Strahl's cabin, and the noise died. Basch looked up at Fran, somewhat surprised by her show of compassion. "Now," she continued, turning her amber gaze to him, "you wish to be gone from this noise ridden place, yes?" Her glance slid distastefully towards Balthier.

Basch shrugged his shoulders in discomfort, as he noted the tension between the pirates, "That would be kind."

"Good." She said, and turned, not waiting for him. Basch, stared after her a moment, then pushed himself out of his seat, following Fran into the bowels of the ship. His legs shook as she led him through the main corridor of the _Strahl_, and he imagined the air rushing beneath his feet. Basch swayed, his hand closed over the wall, fearful to leave it.

Fran's footsteps stopped their echoes, and so, he did too. His gaze rose from his thoughts, and saw her standing to the side of a door, staring at him.

"Please, ignore his antics; he himself is troubled." She said quietly, so as not to be overheard. Even for a Viera, the air here hung thick with an obsession for secrecy. Basch decided not to ask her of what Balthier was troubled; surely nothing honest.

"I thank you--," Basch stopped mid-sentence when Fran stepped close. He could hear the beat of his heart in his head, pulsing at him, telling him that this was the closest encounter he had had with a member of the opposite sex in a very long while. Basch couldn't find a safe place to look; Fran was so close that his eyes would cross should he try to look into hers. By accident, his eyes lingered too long over the curves of her form, and he couldn't help but to appreciate it…

"Do not patronize me Hume," She breathed.

He tore his gaze away and swallowed with a dry mouth. He told her, "Please, leave me be."

Fran's eyes narrowed, and she pressed closer, if that were at all possible. "I do the things I do, not out of pity." She said. A claw brushed against him arm, its touch as sharp as a dagger's. Basch flinched without meaning to, closing his eyes against the sensation. It slowed along the blue of his veins, in which his blood pounded. He was well aware she could hear the thud of his heart quicken, and skip a beat.

"You do not want to earn my pity." She whispered to his ear. Basch pushed past her arm. She let him go, and he stumbled into the open doorway for escape. He leaned his weight against the wall. "You Humes are all the same." She told him. "It's not the air that makes you ill."

He looked back at her dazed and glassy eyed, "No, no it's not." He croaked. His eyes closed against their will and he forced them open again, except now, he saw the face of his brother, not Fran before him. Basch shook his head violently to raze the image from his mind. His eyes fluttered, and he saw the blurred image of Fran, rushing to catch him as he fell forward. Her gaze was fixed upon his, and she guided him to a cot. Basch struggled to keep his eyes on hers, but his memory won him over.

***

He was in a dark room, lit by far away islands of light. The heady feelings of unconsciousness were washing through him, calling in sick voices for him to join them in their black slumber. Out of the corner of his vision, Basch saw something not right with Noah, something about his eyes and dress, even his hair. He stared in a sort of dumbstruck horror, until the details of his brother's appearance finally sharpened. His terror seized him with cold hands, but his eyes couldn't pull away from Noah's face. Noah was the same in every way Basch had struggled to make himself look different. His brother was his reflection, and the freshly opened wounds on his mind bled their terrible thoughts to him again.

Basch's hands scrabbled across the cold marble blindly, and he picked his bruised body off the floor. His arms shook with fatigue. Noah kicked him, and Basch thought he heard something cracking…

As the world stopped its spinning, he was staring at a pair of familiar boots. They were standing facing away from him. "You're despicable," he breathed in disgust. The words cost him; the boots turned around and kicked him again. This time, Basch had not the breath for the words he wished to voice.

"No, I think you are." Noah retorted, his voice loud and harsh. The man was kneeling beside his face, a half-crazed gleam in his eyes. Basch looked about the room. No one else was there. A bitter feeling settled in his stomach, he knew, he was going to die tonight. Nothing would stop this monster, not decency or morals,—for they had certainly already fled—not orders from a superior.

"I'm going to end your life," said Noah slowly, confirming Basch's fears. "By that time, you're going to beg to be forgiven what you wrought upon yourself." His voice quavered with an eerie glee. "I hope it will break you, when you realize how _worthless _your life has been." Noah readied a fist.

"You're mistaken;" Basch choked past the suffocating fear, "I've accomplished more than you. My death will be the biggest stain on your heart. With every waking thought you will think of me, and if you forget for one moment, my phantom will be there to torment you."

Noah gave a chilling smile, as if he'd known he was damned from the start, and didn't care. A blow was delivered to his stomach, then another, and another came. An armored fist landed on Basch's mouth, splitting his lip on his teeth. The stars he saw dazzled him. Blow after blow, and the fact that he was here alone at his brother's mercy, told him he had no chance of surviving this night. It was with a masochistic pleasure that he knew he had enraged his brother.

'Brother'. Basch couldn't stand the fact that this was his brother doing this. It was sick, mad. He told himself this man was Gabranth not Noah, could not possibly be him. It was a lie; it afforded his mind no respite. He _knew_ Noah was doing this to him, right now, though the truth was unbearable.

He lost track of time and sense of direction, as the breath was stolen from his lungs again and again. He hit a wall as a kick propelled him across the marble, and he writhed. His hands lashed out desperate to keep the onslaught at bay. A boot hit him squarely on the head, his vision blurred, his hands fell, shaking and clutching the air. 'Stop please,' He thought.

The beating went on, longer than he could tell. And each blow delivered left him deeper in delirium.

Until, through his stupor he realized it had ended.

Basch lay still; his world now reduced to the mirror reflection he saw in his blood. There were what must have been tears in the corners of his eyes, as he blinked his nausea away. _Why am I not dead yet? _He asked himself.

He strained to look up, the effort cost him much, but he saw that Gabranth was gone now. Relief radiated through him, and it took a tremendous effort not to pass out then and there. Out of instinct Basch could not name, he tried to push himself away from where he lay,—Maybe repulsion.—and as each effort brought him farther away, he knew he was escaping something.

Footsteps were coming, he froze where he was, too terrified to do anything. But they did not come in. Then, his eyes locked on a sharp piece of pottery not far, a weapon. His being _wanted_ that piece of broken porcelain, but before he could come near it, the footsteps had reached him. His fear pushed him onwards, in desperation he crawled brokenly across the floor.

A hand wrenched him up. A gasp escaped his mouth. Basch stared into Gabranth's eyes with hate, his mouth trembling with words. But he never managed to speak them. Instead, an armored fist rose, he saw the glint of steel in it. Basch's hands clenched, _so this was how he was to die. _Gabranth struck. With inhuman agility Basch caught the wrist of his attacker, nails digging into the flesh. A look of surprise crossed Gabranth's face, then, a smirk.

"You're going- to regret that." He hissed.

***

Basch gasped, and his memory released him.

He sucked in the fresh air scraping for the awareness of his surroundings. Through the entire vision, he had had, he was conscious of Fran's presence, as if she was watching too. His forehead pulsed with pain, and he made himself meet her eyes now. When he saw them—as unreal as it seemed— he was certain she knew. His eyes fell from hers, out of a sense of deep discomfort.

"That was the night you got your scar?" Her words were soft, and gentle, like she spoke to a frightened animal. Basch realized that he liked her tone, as if it were a deep-rooted tree swaying in the wind.

His head gave a twitch, 'yes, it was'. Her dark skinned face held its usual serenity, but he could not help but wonder what she thought of, or how she thought of him.

"I could heal the wound for you." She offered in consolation. A nail stretched out, and without touching it, traced the scar's outline. Basch shook his head no, and looked at the floor. He measured each breath to calm his frayed nerves.

"Humes are all the same," she murmured again, "fearing the unknown."

His head came up sharply, "That has already happened to me, it is hardly unknown."

His words were harsher than he expected them to be.

"But you fear that it may happen again," she said slyly. He shrugged a shoulder in discomfort.

"…Yes," Without his meaning his voice broke. As if touched by memory, he smiled a smile that did not reach his eyes. "The torture I went through destroyed my voice." He told her absent-mindedly, his word obliging him; they grated in his throat, caught as he tried to say more, sounding like a foot crunching on gravel. Fran gave his croak a considerate nod.

"You must know that where this life takes us, we cannot stave off unwanted pain. Do not run from your troubles."

"I don't," he told her, "I try to face them." his words died away and he stared at her, jaw clenched, for a time. Then a long ear of hers twitched, her eyebrows creased her perfect forehead, and the corner of her mouth twitched, as if she was enjoying some private joke.

It made Basch uneasy.

"Do not justify unjust actions with just excuses." She told him. Out of politeness, he forced himself to nod. There was no point in arguing with her. He wondered if this new emotion on her spectrum was pity. Had he earned it then, with his lapses of weakness? So helpless to do anything, he could only share his nightmares in a foolish attempt at mercy. He hoped this was not it; he didn't want to be looked down on. He…he was not someone to be sorry for. He would overcome.

Jaw set, he decided to end their conversation. Fran seemed civil enough. He did not detect traces of disappointment in her features, and it encouraged him.

"Maybe I focus too much on what has happened to me, but it will not happen again. What mistakes that I have made shall remain in the past," he told her.

Fran gave an impassive nod, and rose gracefully to her full height. "Should you choose to think differently, I will be disappointed with you Captain," she said to him, and walked out the door.

He almost didn't realize she had called him Captain.

***

A voice was calling to Basch; he struggled to look about, drawn to it. He moved a fraction of an inch, and gasped. He lay exhausted, bouts of trembling consuming his thoughts as pain tore through him.

The ringing in his ears lessened for a moment, and he heard it again, calling his name. But he could not move; another tremor took him. He briefly felt hands about his face, and cried out from the pain they caused. The gentle hands caressed what hair of his not matted in blood; running through it, lovingly. And then it brought down a blade.

Strands of corn silk fell before his vapid eyes; he lay bereft of the strength he wished he had, as his hair was shorn away. The scissors were not at all graceful, nor were they pleasant. They pulled at his scalp, cutting away all they could, but in an uneven fervor that left some patches verdant and others barren. One stroke of the blades came too close to the mass of caked blood on his face, and Basch flinched. It earned him a backhanded blow to his face.

The pain it caused him, and his wound was excruciating. Basch panted for air, his vision closing in and collapsing on itself like it was being sucked into a void. He started to shake from the cold, or perhaps a loss of blood. The hands stopped their work for a moment; they stroked the side of his face gently, where red blossomed from the strike. A voice spoke to Basch, but he could not hear it.

The hands waited for his fit to calm down. The spasms made a final effort to rob his strength, and then he was lying still, breathing shallowly from the pain of cracked ribs. He dared not do anything again. The hands seemed to consider him, because they worked more carefully now, and when the pain became too great, they stopped and waited.

Basch heard then, the tinkling of a blade being pulled free of a sheath. There was no mistaking the sound. Immediately, he could feel the blood pumping through his heart, and it made him heady, nervous, fearful.

He felt it coming closer to him, about to slash open a new scar, when a voice whispered, "Lay still."

He could see the blade out of the corner of his eye, and swallowed through a dry throat. Basch didn't breathe or blink, as the blade ran along the edges of his jaw. It was painful to lie so still, but he did. Basch didn't want to know what would happen if he did not.

Finally, the blade left, leaving uneven stubble in its wake. Basch breathed a sigh of silent relief, and the voice told him in a whisper… that he had been 'good'.

The words frightened him, but he was helpless to do anything. The hands withdrew, and he lost all sense of time. Basch lied awake unable to fall asleep. He could feel the halo of shorn hair about him, covering his skin, the floor. The shivers wracked his body once more, and with each one, he could feel his consciousness slipping from his grasp.

He wanted so desperately to escape…

***

There was a knock on the cabin door, Basch stood, and pushed it open. He was surprised to see Balthier standing there, the ever present smirk that adorned his features, replaced by a frown.

"Captain, as much as I would like to leave you to your devices, we must depart the _Strahl_ now. We've made port with Bhujerba, and the Marquis is waiting eagerly for you. I'm sure." The man leaned against the doorframe, and then looked back over his shoulder with a scowl.

"Fran really seems to like you," he told Basch grudgingly, as if he was sharing some great secret. Then Balthier disappeared.

It left Basch wondering.


End file.
